Waste of Paint
I've been laying on my bed for a while thinking and listening to music. What am i doing? Where am I going with my life. I have no ambition or drive. I like music, I like writing, I like drawing, but I have no passion, nothing that I turn to when im bored, nothing i want to put time and effort into. This journal is the closest thing and I doubt I'll stay occupied with this for long. Everytime I try to write a novel I end three chapters in. Everytime I write a song I get a verse in and stop. Everytime I draw something perfect im never able to come close to replicating it. Everytime I have a dream, I lose it. There are so many things I have to do, and I have such a small amount of ambition to put twoards them. Im afraid I'll never grow up inside, and I'll just slowly lose my friends as they do around me. Maybe thats why I'm trying to make so much time for them, since they won't be there forever. Im afraid to die, but im even more afraid to grow old and lose everything I have,... and be nothing. I've done nothing with my life, thus far. Im one of those kids I used to lamment in high school. The ones who were engrosed in the moment, never looking forward. I guess I've always been one, it's just I was too absorbed in my own world to see it. I want to sing. I want to write music. I want to be remembered. I want to live. But can I?